Fowlers End

by Gerald Kersh

  ...”

  We climbed the dark stairs. There was a fine film of burned grease over everything.

  “Now this,” said Sam Yudenow, “is the ladies’ dressing room.” Sometimes, when the day is a gray waste in the middle of which I find myself lost, when I am alone among strangers and depressed, I think of that room. It was larger than the shop parlor. The shadow of an adjacent building kept it in perpetual twilight. Leaning out of the window to get away from it, you saw a blank wall. If you craned heavenward there was nothing but a cistern out of which came a strangled noise and a tangle of pipes wrapped in rags of sackcloth and sprinkled with dust and ashes. Below in a stone yard stood a dead plant in a tub of sour dirt, and a big dustbin. I am telling you that there was no escape. The room was cold and, at the same time, stuffy. Against the wall to the left of the door stood a washstand topped with a slab of mud-colored false marble on which was a jug of cold water in a big blue basin and an empty glass; at the lightest footstep, the jug and basin chattered like teeth. Below, icy white and gleaming, a chamberpot. The bed was of iron tubing covered with peeling brass: there was more comfort in the prospect of a grave than that of the bed at the end of a day—that pitiless, flat, naked bed with its skin-tight cotton counterpane. Instead of fire, the hearth contained crumpled red crepe paper. The mantelpiece bore two eighteen-pounder shell cases about which somebody had tied bows of pink sateen. Between them hung a yellow photograph of a man who looked like a hangman turned churchwarden: a dour, cruel old man in a billy-cock hat, clutching a black stick, resting one glazed-looking fist upon a book. Against the window stood a dressing table. There was an enamel pail and a small straw mat—nothing more except white wallpaper stamped with blue roses and marked in one place by a patch of dampness. Yet there was something else which I could not define: an atmosphere.

  Women had used that room and somebody had cleaned up after them; but all the mottled soap in Fowlers End could not have scoured away an overhanging aroma of uneasiness, a taint of misery which clung there. I could distinguish a faint smell of mingled sixpenny perfumes and perspiration. In the crockery tray upon the dressing table lay two hairpins, one black, one “invisible.” The woodwork bore the black marks of cigarette burns. Gloom had soaked into the fabric of the place. On the wall under the gas bracket somebody had written three words. They were written small, but the utter nakedness of the room made them conspicuous: Out goes Pat. The abandoned ones, the forgotten ones, the derelicts, the Marie Celestes of the theater had been dragged down this way by the undertow of time and change, leaving behind them nothing but a few cigarette marks, two pins, three words, and a desolation....

  Sam Yudenow said, “I don’t know what your religion is but the way I look at it everything is a blessing in disguise. Variety’s gone to rack and ruin, but like brothels it makes the town safe for respectable girls. Also for the likes of us. A variety turn must ‘ave a wash at least once a week, ‘specially if she’s a contortionist; otherwise, the effects can be dangerous an’ far reaching. Only before you ‘ave a go miv one o’ the ladies ‘ere, better put down a sheet greaseproof paper on the coverlet. Costas guards ‘is sister’s virtue, an’ quite right too. Booligan used to keep a roll of it. The men’s dressing room is next door.”

  It was the same as the other room, only there was a lithograph of Garibaldi over the mantelpiece and more inscriptions on the walls. Also, I noticed an old-fashioned bidet. Sam Yudenow pointed to it with a laugh. “I got that in a job lot from my friend Hacker the breaker. For years, Mrs. Yudenow thought it was for pickling cucumbers in. Actually, if you sit on the floor you can use it for a kind d table.”

  I asked, “And where’s my room?”

  “The way I look at it,” said Sam Yudenow, “what more could anybody ask for than the ladies’ dressing room? Airy like a palace miv a cupboard that locks! During the day what do you want a room for, what? After the turns ‘ave gone ‘ome, Costas’ sister tidies up, an’ it’s all yours. Don’t worry, you’ll be on the go like a gentleman from nine in the morning to ‘alf past eleven at night. Ten bob a week miv a breakfast thvown in—what king could ask for more? For your other meals, ask Costas. ‘E charges next to nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it up miv Costas. My God, in a couple years you’ll save money to buy me out! For you I’ll be working. That’s la vie for you. See? I talk French too, only in show biz the more you savvy the less you say. So all you got to do is, move in like a gentleman, you lucky bastard, an’ live like a lord. From now on, you’re God Almighty rahnd ‘ere. When you say ‘yes’ it’s yes, when you say ‘no’ it’s no; your word is law—so long as you consult me first.... ‘Ear that cveaking? That’s Costas on the stairs. ‘E listens. When Gveek meets Gveek, watch your step.” Then Sam Yudenow, clearing his throat and winking at me, said in a loud, clear voice, “Five pounds ten a week, Mr. Carlton, take it or leave it!”

  “Eh?”

  He whispered, “In show biz always multiply by two what you earn, an’ add ten per cent.”

  Costas was about five feet tall and a yard wide, built in the form of a cask, red-eyed and irritable, shaggy as a Highland steer, ominous and dark as the hour before a storm. An angry man—there was his story: a baffled Ajax, a frustrated Hector, an incarcerated Achilles. His face was of the color and texture of that worm-eaten willow wood which, because the softer parts of the grain have been worn out by water or otherwise eroded, has an appearance of antiquity and is, therefore, used by picture framers to set off thunderous and somber canvases. Easy stuff for time and tide to work on, nothing like as rugged as it looks; you can put a hundred years on it in half an hour with a handful of wet sand. I had his number—Costas didn’t fool me for a moment. When Sam Yudenow introduced me, he grunted and tried to stare me out of countenance. Now I have remarkably pale-gray eyes and, being somewhat nearsighted, tend to thrust my head forward when observing something closely. I am motivated by nothing but friendly curiosity, I assure you; but the effect is frightening. A girl once told me that I look “like a lynx about to spring.” Furthermore (perhaps because I am afraid of missing something) I hardly ever blink. The long stare having failed, Costas tried the hand grip. I will say this for him: he didn’t wince, only he compressed his lips until his mouth looked like an old cicatrix. When at last we released each other, he said in remarkably precise English, “You pay strictly in advance, Mr. Laverock. His managers always leave suddenly.”

  Sam Yudenow said, “What I mean to say is, Costas, why worry; what for? We’re all gentlemen ‘ere. I’ll personally deduct the rent from Mr. Carlton’s wages.” Then he said to me, “Would you mind waiting for me downstairs, Mr. Laventon?”

  The acoustics of that decrepit house were remarkable. Also, Sam Yudenow’s whisper had an extraordinarily penetrative quality—I learned later that he started life as a professional shouter for a fishmonger in Petticoat Lane— and anyway I have sensitive ears. I heard Yudenow say, “Don’t worry. Every Friday regular I’ll see you get your seven bob. Only if Laventon should happen to ask, make miv the mysterious—”

  Costas did not bother to whisper. He said scornfully, “Okay, okay, okay.”

  “He’s a gentleman,” said Sam Yudenow, in that whisper of his which might have cut through a plank.

  Costas replied, “You have had some bastards in your time, but this man is the king of the bastards. I like his face.”

  A door opened that separated the passage from the back of the cafe, and Costas’ sister appeared. She looked at me and shrank back, cupping protective hands over her magnificent breasts. “How do you do,” I said, bowing politely.

  She said, “For Christ’s sake, what next, I wonder!”—and went back into the cafe, slamming the door.

  Then Costas and Yudenow came down. “You see?” said Sam Yudenow, looking at his watch. “I fixed it all up for you. An’now you got to meet Copper Baldwin. Be nice to Copper. Whatever ‘e says, whatever ‘e does, laugh it off. Because ‘e’s worth ‘is weight in diamonds. Acinema circuit is like a machine—
it won’t run mivout a cog. An’ if ever there was a cog, it is Copper Baldwin. Come!” As we went out he handed me the key of the front door. It weighed about half a pound. “I want you should hold this as a sacred trust,” he said.

  “That man Costas speaks pretty good English for a Cypriot tailor,” I said.

  Sam Yudenow, wide-eyed and openmouthed at the comment, replied, “What then should ‘e speak? Bad English? ‘E’s an edyacated man. Why not? By Sam Katz in New York, before ‘e’ll let anybody wash out a toilet ‘e’s got to be a Doctor Philosophy! Sure, Costas is a politician. When ‘e gives Cyprus back to Gveece, so ‘e’ll be in a very nice position. Only ‘e done a couple murders. Well, live an’ let live is my motto. One word from me an’ they’d ‘ang ‘im up like a pig. Only don’t let on you know about it or I wouldn’t give tuppence for your life. Whereas in the meantime, if I tell ‘im, ‘e’ll make you a Savile Row suit for three pounds miv secret pockets.... The way I look at it, who knows? Look at Russia. If the czar Russia ‘ad said to Trotkin an’ Lensky, ‘Live an’ let live,’he would be today in a very nice position. Whereas ... In show biz, Laventon, one thing leads to another like ... like ... like the photo-electric cell.

  “Live an’ let live, keep your fingers crossed, an’ keep your mouf shut. Was a time when Mussolini was a beggar, no bread to ‘is feet, no boots to eat, no roof to ‘is mouf. But your children should find ‘emselves in such a nice position ‘e’s in now! Life is a covered wagon. It could be Costas might be a dictator yet—in which case a monopoly! There was a man, so this man ‘elped some bloody dago when ‘e ‘ad no arse to ‘is tvousers. Gradually, all of a sudden, this dago becomes dictator o’ South America. So ‘e says, ‘Because you ‘elped me out when I was already eating my boots an’ sucking the nails like Charlie Chaplin in The Gold Rush, I ‘ereby give you the monopoly o’ green paint.’So this feller says, ‘What do you mean, green paint? What for, green paint, what for?’ So, miv a mysterious smile, this dictator says, ‘Ah, amigo, but I ‘ave made, uxcuse me, a law—everything should be painted green, or else!’ My motto is live an’ let live, because one never knows. Be international. So Costas shot a few Gveeks? So? You’d be surprised the way this class o’ people breeds.

  “Keep the ticket machine going, an’ silence when you speak! An’ remember never to forget—one never knows, an’ you never can tell. An’ above all, you better be nice to Copper Baldwin.”

  4

  I DO NOT know what I was expecting, but, when I first met him, Copper Baldwin disappointed me. Of course, it took only half an hour or so of Sam Yudenow to condition you for the monstrous, gear you for the abnormal—in general, to take you out of this world, as the saying goes. Copper Baldwin. It would not have surprised me if he had turned out to be a Yaqui Indian in war paint. Yet he looked ordinary enough. Worth his weight in diamonds: by Sam Yudenow’s computation this should have meant that he was about the size of Primo Camera and could tie his shoelaces while standing upright; but he was of average size and shape and coloring, a man of the crowd. His hair was of a dusty shade. There was nothing noticeable about his face, except that it drooped; every feature of it seemed to be set a little lower than it ought to have been. It was not exactly that his hairline was low; his forehead ended where the bridge of his nose might have been expected to start. Thus he seemed to have more eyelids than eyes, and his ears encroached upon the angles of his jaws. He had a long, melancholy nose and a long, deeply indented upper lip, a sad mouth, and a chin that sloped a shade too abruptly toward a large Adam’s apple. He had a waxy, unhealthy skin, and was wearing a dungaree jacket, “Government Surplus” postman’s trousers with red seams, and old tennis shoes. To pass the time away, he was trying to balance a screwdriver on the tip of his nose. Another screwdriver of the three-geared American pattern protruded from his breast pocket together with a tack hammer. From his right hip hung a holder containing one of those deadly looking tools with which a resourceful man can do almost anything—tear a house down or put it together again—a combined claw hammer, jemmy, tomahawk, lever and chisel.

  “Copper,” said Sam Yudenow, “I want you should meet Mr. Laventon, our new manager. Mr. Laventon, above all I want you should meet Copper Baldwin.”

  “What, another new damager?” said Copper Baldwin. “Well, for what we are about to receive the Lord make us truly thankful.” And he looked me up and down. His eyes were the commonest-looking eyes in the world: “proletarian blue,” as some high-brows call it, referring to that cheap dye with which workmen’s overalls are colored; it washes pale but it never washes out. I guessed that he was about forty lean years old. His body drooped, as well as his face. It was not that he didn’t stand upright—Copper Baldwin was, in fact, very straight in the back—only he was low-shouldered and long-bodied and conveyed the impression of having been poured downward instead of growing up. “Oh, well,” he said in a fatalistic tone, “there’s no ‘arm trying him out. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Laventon.”

  “I don’t mind what you call me,” I said, “not a bit. Only, for the records, the name is Laverock.”

  As if Sam Yudenow were not there, Copper Baldwin said to me, “It’s not so much that he’s an ignorant bastard— which he is—but Yudenow lives in a world of his own. I forget the proper word for it, but it’s the name of a disease. ‘Foxy Sam’we call him and he’s proud of it. Foxy. All a fox knows is the way from his ‘ole to a chicken-run, and back again. That much, I grant you, Yudenow knows. Nothing much more. Don’t mind him. Because he walks on two legs there’s a law against shooting him and making a muff out of his skin. That’s all his strength. Nothing but a fox, only he’s got to have his chickens boiled.... All right, Mr. Yudenow— bugger off. Kind of scram. Go on.”

  To my surprise, Sam Yudenow chuckled. “Copper doesn’t mean a word ‘e says,” he said. “Copper’s a good boy, only no self-control. That means to say, Copper’s a character. You’ll love ‘im, Laventon—you’ll love ‘im!”

  “Go away,” said Copper Baldwin. “Get out of my sight.”

  Still laughing, Sam Yudenow shook me by the hand. “Worth ‘is weight in diamonds, I told you,” he said. “So now you see what kind type man Sam Yudenow is—even in show biz unique! I’d like to see a Doctor Philosophy talking to Sam Katz like Copper talks to me. But of such are empires built—colosseums, too—that’s me! God bless you, get stuck into the job an’ remember never to forget to keep the fire buckets—”

  “Go away,” said Copper Baldwin.

  “Your fire buckets full, to mivin one inch o’ the rim. Two inches low in a fire bucket, an’ I’m the sufferer. Ain’t it, Copper?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, take a pen’ orth!” said Copper Baldwin. “Take a ball-o’-chalk!”

  “Put your trust in Sam Yudenow an’ keep your powder dry. Flea powder you’ll find in a locker. Keep it under lock an’ key, or the bastards rahnd ‘ere will get ‘old of it an’ drilute it miv water, an’ drink it up.”

  Copper Baldwin said, “For the last time, will you scram?”

  “See you later,” said Sam Yudenow. Then he climbed into an immense orange-and-green Renault limousine, and was driven away.

  Copper Baldwin said to me, “Your name is Laverock, I take it. That bastard, he’s got kind of a different sort of ears like a dog, or a rat, or something—not to insult them by mentioning Sam Yudenow in the same breath. Watch out for Yudenow, sonny—he’s dead dangerous.”

  Colorful imagery was in vogue in those days; startling simile. I made a mental note of Copper Baldwin’s tone of voice and manner of speaking, and decided that I would put it down as Sandwich Cutter’s Knife. As a tailor grows accustomed to his own scissors and a barber to his own razors or a writer to his own pens, so that no one else can use them effectively, a sandwich cutter grows accustomed to his favorite knife. It begins as a common ham knife, one of a hundred thousand others out of the same factory. But something of the nature of the man who happens to take a fancy to it gets into the blade. The man gets the feel
of the steel, and the steel works in sympathy with the man. Perhaps, by the power of idiosyncrasy, the knife undergoes a subtle molecular change and absorbs a little bit of the spirit in the hand that cherishes it—what do I know? Anyway, in the end you will see an old sandwich cutter carrying with him a knife which in anyone else’s hand would be a mere encumbrance: it ripples, bends limply and, honed down to next to nothing, is as near flabby as steel can get. But let this old gray man take up this gray old knife, and a virtue seems to flow into it, so that it slices like a botanist’s section cutter; grain, fat, or gristle, it knows them in the dark.

  I thought of Copper Baldwin’s tongue in this connection. He talked the lowest-down kind of Cockney I ever heard in my life—snorts, grunts, labials, glottal stops, rhyming slang and all—so that if he had been simply making conversation or passing the time of day, you would have had to listen twice before you caught the drift of him. But his tongue being unwrapped and wiped to carve, it became supple, sure, and accurate to the fraction of an ounce—and at the end, one little cut for overweight and good measure, always, almost but not quite, blunting itself against the fork of his perception. It is the perception that counts; never mind the dialect comedy—I will see myself damned before I butcher Copper Baldwin to make a grammarian’s holiday! Yes, he juggled his diphthongs and mewed his vowels and swallowed his consonants, used prepositions to end sentences with, negated his negatives and played pocket billiards with subject, predicate and object. But Copper Baldwin knew language and the meaning of it; tough as it might be he had got the grain of it, and knew how to whittle it into shape.